A daily act of brutality

Unusually for me, a themed post.  See if you can guess the theme.
 
All images taken from the public spaces of “The British Institution”, or tumblrs, not from behind the paywall to my knowledge.
 
Well worth a visit – once you’re in, you’ll find you can’t leave.  Not for five years anyway, even with good behaviour.
 
http://www.thebritishinstitution.com
 

 

 

 
 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 
 

 

Error correction mechanisms

My Significant Other has quite a few of them.

Cruella domme of my adolescent dreams...ahhhh
If the lipstick smear on her cigarette doesn’t act like a religious icon for you, you’re reading the wrong blog.


Bent over double and naked...but happy
And it’s only just gone the longest day, too.  Those long summer evenings, eh?


secretary humiliation oh my
Julie looks nice, doesn’t she?  Funny how looks can be deceptive like that.


The strap...again
If you’ve forgotten, don’t worry – she’ll just let you keep confessing to things until you get it.


Chastity with a smile
Isn’t that brave?  This is so hard for her to do – but aren’t you proud that she resisted the temptation to give in to her sweeter nature?  Again?

Incidentally, Servitor will be having a correction session this Thursday.  So if there’s anything relating to this blog you want to complain about, now’s a really a good time.  I’ll pass on your comments to Someone who can deal me, err… I mean them properly.

I worship her divine shadow

I am sorry to disappoint any Googlers seeking Lexx-related material after that title…I just thought it fitting for the theme of my blog.  But admirers of Xev, or Zev are really quite likely to enjoy what they find here.


And anyone who does like the material in this blog, who has no idea what I am talking about, has somehow missed out on the perviest science fiction TV show ever, and really needs to go and have a look.  Especially this episode.


Anyway, that’s that and now this is this:



Captioned image of femdom who gives but does not receive
She doesn’t actually approve of corporal punishment.  But she finds it does get the dishes washed and the clothes ironed, so she is prepared to make an exception in your case.



Femdom heroine returns and wants her boots licked clean
And when she gets you home, I hope you’ll be doing your patriotic duty and helping to take away all that built-up tension and aggression.  Just bend over and think of England.



Femdom stepsister puts a strap to good use
I’ve heard that Nicole will shortly be getting married.  It does mean she’ll have less time for Vincent, as she’ll have a husband to look after, a husband who she feels will need a lot of attention at first.  But she has a friend who is taking a great interest in Vincent, so who knows, perhaps the wedding bells will be ringing for two rosy-cheeked bridegrooms?



Raouls back bigger and badder thane ever
Makes a change from buying tampons, I suppose.


Fiction: Waiting

You wait in silence, with the others.
You know all these men by sight and by name.  But you never really speak to them.  You nodded silently at them as you walked in, and you too joined the chorus of curt nods as later arrivals walked in and found a place.  But you don’t speak.  Later on, it’s not allowed but no one has ever said you can’t speak to them at this stage.  But why would you?  There’s nothing to say.  You know nothing of what they do.
Except that like you, they do this.
You know all their names because you hear the receptionist call them out when she’s checking attendance.  And later you hear them called one by one by a different voice, from behind the heavy wooden door.  The door is thick and muffles the sound.  But you listen with exceptional care, because the name might be yours.  Eventually, it will be yours, there can be no doubting or escaping that.  You long to get it over with.  But you dread it too, and breathe again as another man rises heavily to his feet, and reluctantly passes into the other room.
There is a large clock, which ticks and tocks heavily into the silence, from the corner.  You wonder whether it was placed there deliberately to add to the tension.  ‘Tension’ is barely the word, because to be truthful, what you feel is fear, plain and simple.  Fear building since the start of this week, as the day approached.  Fear that struck like an icicle in the pit of your stomach this morning, when you woke up knowing this was the day.  Fear that now seems ready to bubble over into panic, sending you hysterically fleeing from this place.  But somehow  you never do.
Now there are some sounds to be heard from behind the door, at the limit of hearing.  You can’t make out words but you can hear her voice, level and measured as always.  She never raises her voice and she never shouts.  She talks about her expectations for the men under her tutelage, and she identifies specific areas in which they have fallen short.  She asks precise, pointed questions and she listens carefully to the answers.
You can hear the man’s voice, answering her questions.  His voice is quiet too, but there is an urgency and a rush to it, as if he is trying to suppress the panic that might cause him to shout.  It is worth putting your point of view.  Perhaps it would be easier if she were more implacable, if nothing you said could make a difference.  But she listens, and will change her mind if the explanations are reasonable.  And so you explain, and you excuse and you apologise…and as in panic you see her unmoved by those carefully prepared explanations, you can find yourself gabbling.
This is what you hear now.  The man’s voice has become more shrill in tone, and urgent.  He is no longer discussing his behaviour, he is simply pleading.  And this does no good. She will not tolerate it for long, and the whining tones cease abruptly, no doubt at a curt word from her.
After a pause, her own voice can be heard again.  Now, she is giving her decision, and the reasons for it.  Now there is no pleading to be heard, because at this stage there is no point.  The voice – as measured and calm as ever – ceases and there is silence.
Total, empty silence, which the tick-tocking of the clock seems to swell to fill.
Inside the room, positions are being assumed.  Clothing is perhaps being adjusted.  Implements are being selected, laid out ready.  Restraints are almost certainly being applied: most men need them.  All is done in silence, and the men outside find themselves holding their breath.
It is always longer than expected.  Surely it must start now, you think?  But perhaps something is not yet quite right.  She will not begin until everything is ready, and she never hurries.
Total silence.
And then the silence is violently broken, by the sharp CRACK of an implement.  Wooden or leather?  A paddle or a cane?  On the bare flesh or (less commonly, except for the very harshest implements) across the clothing?  The sound of just one impact answers all of these questions.  You know precisely what is being done.  You have experienced it.  This is a heavy leather strap, applied across a bare bottom.  And although there is a feeling of relief that this time it is him and not you, you know too that it will be you.  Maybe not this implement, not this way, this time around.  But eventually, you will experience everything, and all of the combinations.  But just for now, just at this precise time, you are out here and it is someone else in there who is having that done to him.  And that is something for which you can only give thanks.
You don’t know how many.  And so you count.  You would prefer not to, you would prefer to think of something else.  But you count, of course you count.  All around the room, no matter where their gaze lies or what they seem to be thinking, all are counting.  There is no point in counting someone else’s strokes, as it will never affect your own later.  But you have to count, how can you not?
With each impact, you wonder whether that was the last.  As they build up, at regular intervals, milestones are reached.  At five, or at seven there is little doubt that another will follow after a pause.  But at six or at ten, exactly the same pause seems to stretch out until you wonder whether that is that… until CRACK tells you that there is more still to come.  She likes sixes, and the pauses at 12, 18 and 24 hang particularly heavily in the room. During a particularly hard beating, it is essential not to meet anyone else’s eye, as what expression could you possibly share when the 25th, or the 37th or even the 61st impact rings out across the room?  So eyes stay firmly fixed on the floor.
Mingled in with the sounds of this steady beating, the sounds of its results begin to be heard.  Grunts and heavy breathing barely make it through the thick wooden door, but after a while little cries and gasps start to emerge.  One or two men can remain silent almost throughout, and one new arrival is still helplessly noisy almost from the start when it is his turn.  But most find themselves involuntarily commenting on the discipline as it builds up, beginning to cry out as if in surprise at the fresh pain from each stroke.
You never ‘get used’ to it, either from one session to the next or from one stroke to the next.  Each impact outrages the nerve endings, which have evolved to report pain so it can be avoided.  Yet here it cannot be avoided, and so the nerves shout ever more angrily, ever more urgently.  Someone is hitting you, is calmly adding bruise onto bruise, is raising welts on ever more damaged tissue!  Pain receptors urgently report the assault, commanding an immediate response.  Run away!  Hide!  Fight back!
But you cannot do any of those things.  So what do you do?  You cry out.  You yell and shriek instinctively, to alert people around that you are in pain and need relief.  But there is only her, and she will not be providing any relief from this.  So you yell, and you cry and you shriek and…you beg.
Yes.  You beg.  You offer frantic apologies and promises and bargains.  You plead for mercy, knowing all the time that nothing will do the slightest good, that nothing you say can possibly dissuade her from her set course of action.  Your hopeless begging will not result in one fewer stroke or the most marginal diminution in the force with which any are applied.  Every time you tell yourself you will not beg, that you are a rational being and you will not be reduced to a piteous, mewling coward for no reason.  But you will beg for mercy, you know you will. You always do.
The pause after 24 is long.  After a while, you stop waiting for the sound of 25.  For some reason, tension around the room relaxes slightly.  Shoulders shift almost imperceptibly forwards.  Why the sound of someone else being beaten is so nerve-racking is hard to explain.  After all, when someone esle is being beaten, you are not.  It is now, after their beating,  that the door might fly open and a disshevvilled figure stagger into the room, to pass into the corridor where he will stand quietly facing the wall (fidgeting but not daring to explore his damaged flesh under the watchful eye of the receptionist), until all of the sessions are complete.  And if that happens, then it will be someone else’s turn.  And that someone might be you.
There are four other men in the room.  So there is a one in five chance that it will be you next time.  Eventually, of course, it must be you.  The probability rises until it reaches one, when the second-last is receiving his treatment and there is no one left in the room to wait with you.  You hate being last, like that.
But there is another possibility.  All the room’s occupants start visibly as the sound of another impact is heard.  This is quieter, more of a SNICK! than a slapping, cracking sound.  But it is nothing gentle.  You know it is the cane.
And even if you had not instantly recognised that soft, deadly, evil sound, the shriek that follows provides a further clue.   The previous session is not yet done, but has merely reached another stage.  You didn’t know that, as the sounds of the first beating built up. But the recipient in there almost certainly did, having had his punishment explained to him before it began.  He knew, all the way to 24 strokes, that this was merely the overture, that no amount endured from the strap in any way lessened the number of strokes of the cane yet to come.  Perhaps it would have been easier for him not to know.  But she did not give him that choice, because that is not the way she does it.
Somehow you find it hard to breathe when someone is being caned.  But you have to breathe, because the pace is slower, with long pauses between the strokes.  The pauses are not silent, because the recipient is now crying uncontrollably, having long lost the ability to form coherent words.  Yet the strokes punctuate and regulate the rhythm of the sobs, implacably.  The screams tell of agony and fear.  You already know that, because you have had the cane too.  And you screamed in just the same way.
Other men don’t do this.  It is the middle of a Friday evening, and other men are drinking with their friends, or dining with their dates.  Some might be having a quiet evening at home.  You have prepared lies in case any work colleagues ask what you were doing on Friday.  Because you are hardly going to tell them that you were bent over, being beaten on your bottom by a lady whose real name you don’t even know.  And thanked her afterward for the privilege.  And left swearing never to return, to recapture your life.  And knowing full well that next month you would be back here, waiting your turn, wishing things were otherwise.
Even if you could bear the embarrassment of telling someone…what could you possibly say, when they ask “Why?”?
The caning has finished, and the sobs die away.  There is a brief conversation.  She likes to end with a few brief comments and reminders of the key areas on which she expects improvement.  But no time is allowed for recovery: shorts are jerked back up, the door is flung open and the recipient must emerge still flushed in the face, sometimes still crying but in any event still tear-stained and dishevelled.
He staggers through the room and out into the corridor, where he will quietly await the others.
Again, there is no sound in the room but the tick-tocking of the clock.  It shows she is running a little behind schedule.  Probably, that means you will finish quite late, as she does not hurry and catch up the time.  She takes whatever time is needed.
Tick tock, tick tock.
There is silence from behind the heavy wooden door.   But soon it will be broken, when she calls the next name.
Will it be yours?  You’d like to get it over with.  The sooner it is your name the better.  You know that. Get it over with.
But oh please oh please, let it be someone else, just this time.  Not you.  Not yet.  You’re not ready just yet.  Please.
But that is not for you to decide.  She is reading through a report in there right now, and there is a name on top of it.  That is the name that will be called next, whatever you might want.  If it is your name, she is thinking about you right now.  If not, your name is waiting in the pile of reports before her.
You’ll find out soon.
You just have to wait.
The photo of course is from the formidable Cassie Hunter, the Hunteress.  A lady whose style and approach so closely matches my deepest fantasies of inexorable school-style beatings, and whose beauty so perfectly complements that role, that I can hardly bear even to observe her from afar.  And because my fantasies are so much ‘heavier’ than my real willingness to take punishment, I am too scared ever to visit her.  But she visits me, in my dreams.

Femdom story: A normal marriage (part one)

Christopher hurried home through the drizzling rain.  It was Friday, and that meant just one thing: making love to his beautiful wife.  As so often on the days set aside for sex, she had called him teasingly at the office in the afternoon.  He’d hoped that none of the other staff could see him going crimson in his cubicle, as she’d outlined some of the things she would be doing to him, and giggling at his stammered, coded responses.
His wife, Janice, was beautiful, sexy, intelligent and…so creative in the bedroom.  Christopher sighed. He knew how lucky he was.  Other men would kill to have a wife like that – and he’d often caught his colleagues looking longingly on the occasions she came into the office, sashaying across the floor with the confidence that only a beautiful woman can muster.  Yes, he was very lucky.  It was just that…he found that perhaps he didn’t always enjoy having sex as much as he had imagined he would.  Sometimes, to be honest, he would rather just watch TV.
His first time
It had started on his wedding night.  Christopher had had a very sheltered upbringing.  Brought up in an all-female household, and educated at home, he had been carefully shielded from inappropriate and vulgar material.  He knew nothing of sex, although he was aware it was something to be experienced only with a wife – and where was he to find one, as he never left the house?  His mother had therefore been delighted when the niece of an old friend of hers had taken an interest in her lad at the tender age of seventeen, and after a brief courtship they had married two days before his eighteenth birthday.  She was eight years older, and when – in perhaps the most excruciating conversation of his life – Christopher had stammered out that he was still a virgin, and knew nothing of lovemaking, she had simply laughed, taken his hand in hers and told him that she knew precisely what to do.
By the time Christopher and his lovely bride reached the bedroom after all the wedding festivities were complete, Christopher was in a state of intense excitement – while still almost entirely ignorant of what was supposed to happen.  “Don’t worry” she had whispered.  “I’ll just do everything this first time.”  And she had slipped off her bridal gown, to reveal her lithe young body clad only in sophisticated lingerie in pure, innocent white.  And beckoning to her virgin husband, she had gently tugged at his belt until it came free, slipped his trousers down and hooked both thumbs over his shorts before sliding those slowly and deliberately down around his ankles. The she looked up at his panting face, smiled and breathed “Over you go” and Christopher had felt a hand in the small of his back, pushing firmly, and he found himself lying there, across the warm bare thighs of his bride.
She made a few adjustments to his position, stroked him slowly up the inside of the thighs and then the sexual intercourse had begun.  Christopher’s first time.  He smiled now to remember how much noise he had made, as the flat of her hand came down first on one cheek, then on the other, cracking down in a steady pace.  ‘So this is sexual intercourse?’, he’d thought to himself.  It was a strange sensation.  A lot more uncomfortable than he’d expected, as his buttocks turned red under the relentless slapping of her palms.
By the standards of their later love-making, it had been very mild.  She had used only her bare hands throughout, but still Christopher, after an initially brave start, had found himself first wriggling, then bucking about as he tried to keep the tears welling up in his eyes from falling to the floor.  He was yet to learn that it was no shame to weep during their trysts – indeed these days, it was a rare encounter that did not result in tears.  It had seemed like an age across her lap, the blows coming harder and harder and faster and faster, as she also began to pant in rhythm until…just when he thought he must scream and beg for release from the pain, she began to make some extraordinary gasping noises, then little cries and finally an almost roaring sound of release…then pushed him hard to fall on the floor, and lay back on the bed, panting and murmuring to herself.
This, she told him when she had caught her breath, helped him up and they were discussing the extraordinary event that had just occurred, this had been an orgasm.  Women had them.  Men did not.  The culmination of love-making for the woman was the orgasm, while for men it was the bright red, sore bottom that he had just received.  She had laughed when he asked nervously whether the orgasm hurt – and told him that it was an agony that he could barely begin to conceive of.  “But in our shared pain – my orgasm and your whacked bottom – we become one and celebrate our love.” she had said.
He had always wondered what sex was like.  That night he discovered, and was grateful to his lovely wife for teaching him. 
They had made love twice more that night.  On the second time, almost exactly the same thing had happened. Of course, Christopher’s bottom was already sore when the love-making started, so after just a few strokes he had begun to yelp, and to beg pathetically for mercy.  Fortunately, soon after he had started to plead in this way, the panting and gasping had begun – it seemed that nature had designed things so that when he was brought more rapidly to a state of agony, her orgasm would come along more quickly.
When she had teasingly asked if he was man enough for a third time, he had experienced an uncontrollable sense of fear, and sobbed – while being lovingly cuddled in her arms – that his poor bottom was in too much pain.  So she had introduced him to what she called a ‘hand job’.  Positioning herself in front of him, she had instructed him to hold his hands out – palm upwards – and while smiling sweetly into his eyes the whole time, she brought out a short leather strap. 
“Ready?” she breathed, and without waiting for a reply swung the strap down hard, making him yelp in pain and surprise.  The pain was different – in many ways worse – but at least it gave his aching bottom a rest.  And, as she pointed out afterwards, the advantage of the hand job was that they could make love face to face, staring lovingly into one another’s eyes as she gradually built up the pattern of welts across his palms and lower wrists.
After this third bout of love-making, they had gone to sleep, cuddled in one another’s arms.  Christopher had been confused – and very much in pain – but he also felt more in love than ever with this woman, who had introduced him to the sacred mysteries of sex.
He just hadn’t expected it to hurt so much.  Did all men find it that difficult, that painful?
Getting used to it
He found it almost impossible to talk to any of his friends about sex.  But one evening, in the pub, with his oldest and closest friend, he had nervously ventured onto the subject of sex.  “Janice is” he had coughed “very active, you know.  Very forceful. In bed.”
His friend had simply congratulated him, in a beery way, and made a rather crude remark about his luck and needing to watch no one else took her away from him.  Swallowing his distaste, Christopher had pressed the point.
“Only” he had whispered.  “I was wondering.  After a really hard session….is it normal for me to feel, well…a little sore?”
His friend had stared at him.  “I mean down there.” He whispered urgently.
His friend had roared with laughter, and told him that it was perfectly normal to feel sore after a heavy bout of lovemaking, if you were lucky enough to get one.  Sometimes, he said, ‘down there’ could be left so sore it could be sensitive to the touch for days.  Christopher had been reassured, as he often found after making love, that his bottom was so bruised that he could hardly bear to sit down for, as his friend rightly said, days at a time.
“And er…well, about orgasms, you know” he’d gone on, wondering whether he would ever be able to speak to this person sober again (he could not, it turned out).
“She, well she usually screams when she, you know and er…” 
“And you scream as well, I’ll bet, you lucky devil.” His friend had laughed, digging him painfully in the ribs.
“Yes, I frequently do.  I scream a lot.” He’d admitted candidly.
“Gets you pretty hot down there, does she?” his friend had embarrassingly continued, and Christopher had mumbled that yes, indeed, he often felt burning hot during a bout of intercourse and left it at that, mortified at how far the conversation had gone, but reassured that their love-making was ‘normal’.
A troubling development – and Janice’s solution
There was one aspect that was not.  From the wedding night onwards, the newlyweds had noticed a peculiar development during their lovemaking.  Christopher’s penis had a tendency to go stiff, usually just at the point at which they were about to begin.  During the intercourse itself, as the blows came thick and fast, it would usually go down again, but sometimes the stiffness would return soon afterwards when, with reddened bottom and tears in his eyes, he lay beside his panting wife on the bed.
He had been summoning the courage to go and talk to a doctor about the little problem, but fortunately one of Janice’s friends was a nurse and she had been able to raise the issue with her on their return from honeymoon.  It seemed quite a number of men were afflicted with this complaint, although it was so embarrassing that it was never discussed in public.  Apparently the stiffening was essentially harmless, but Janice’s friend had said that if it ever progressed to a discharge of milky-looking fluid it was important to take measures, such as suppressing the stiffening by encasing the penis in a metal or plastic tube.  Christopher had not liked the sound of a fluid discharge at all, so when Janice had pointed out that the stiffening – even if harmless – impaired their lovemaking, by getting in the way when he went over her knee, he had readily agreed, and had been fitted with a medical device that very night.
He was relieved to have the thing locked away, as it reminded him of an excruciatingly humiliating conversation on the third night of their marriage, in which his total ignorance of sexual matters had been exposed.  He thought he had heard from somewhere that the penis could also be involved in lovemaking (although he had no idea how) and had shyly suggested this to his wife.
“What – you mean the dangly thing you pee out of?” she had asked, taken aback.
He was hastening to reassure her that he must have misunderstood, and she should forget the idea.  But she had shrugged and said that she’d try anything once.  With some difficulty, he had positioned himself across her lap facing upwards, his penis embarrassingly stiffer than ever.  It had taken only the first few spanks across his penis and – especially – his testicles, to convince him that whatever he had read about the role of these organs in love-making, he had somehow got completely the wrong end of the stick.  He had shrieked and pleaded with Janice to stop, but she had said that it was worth trying to go through with it, and did, eventually, manage to reach orgasm, finishing up with a firm sequence of swats on his testicles.
Christopher had never mentioned the ridiculous idea again, and was most relieved that his penis was locked away in its tube.  Occasionally, Janice’s love-making did extend to a few swats on the testicles, but he never again had to experience such a full-on, passionate spanking applied to them.  Christopher did know from reading that some men apparently used their genitals in love-making all the time.  It made him shudder even to think about the pain it must involve.
Becoming more adventurous
It was now two and a half years since that wonderful wedding night, and the spark had not left their marriage.  Janice was a great believer in spicing up their love-making, and barely a month went by without her producing one or other new sex toy to experiment with.  They now had a fine collection of paddles and straps, each producing a slightly different sensation and sound, each quite satisfactory in its own way in working his bottom into a state that made Christopher cry with pain, and his wife cry in ecstasy.  On their first wedding anniversary, she had produced a cane – which had taken their intimacy to a whole new level.  From the very first stroke, Christopher had screamed in shocked agony, and he had begged for mercy, for relief from any more such awful blows.  The pleas had been to little avail, but fortunately the cane, while producing ferocious angry weals on his bottom, also seemed to excite Janice immensely, and after ‘just’ six strokes, he had heard the cane clatter to the floor, above the sound of his wife in the throws of rapture.
Since then, the cane had been kept for special occasions.  Janice seemed to understand that he needed sometimes to make love at a lower intensity, that the pain from the cane was not something that could be inflicted every single week.  But he would often see her looking longingly at the feared instrument where it hung on the wall, and would take the greatest possible pride occasionally – when he could bear it – in murmuring shyly “perhaps you’d like to cane me tonight, darling.”  Anniversaries and birthdays brought the cane, and on one occasion Janice had had an exceptionally bad day at work, and was waiting for him cane in hand, when he arrived home.  Without formalities, he had bent across the kitchen table and she made love to him right there, with nine searing strokes of passion.
Not all the ‘spicing up’ had reached such passionate heights of pain, though.  Once, she had gigglingly asked him whether he thought corsets were sexy.  He had readily replied that he did, and was charmed when she delved into the department store bag in front of her and brought out a heavily-boned, red lace-up contraption.  It had taken a while to get him into it, and as she pointed out, when he bent over to receive the blows of their love-making, it did seem rather to cut into his stomach and restrict his breathing.  But it had nonetheless become an important part of their sex life, and he had learnt to love the feeling of the heel of her shoe in the small of his back as she strained to pull the laces to achieve the greatest possible constriction.

(to be continued…)

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